


you are my sweetest downfall

by fits_in_frames



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-02-10
Updated: 2007-02-10
Packaged: 2018-01-21 12:03:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1549820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fits_in_frames/pseuds/fits_in_frames
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean has always been a good soldier, a good son, but John's never known how to tell him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you are my sweetest downfall

**Author's Note:**

> _you are my sweetest downfall_  
>  _i loved you first, i loved you first_  
>  _beneath the sheets of paper lies my truth_  
>  _i have to go, i have to go_  
>  {regina spektor // samson}  
> 
> 
> Spoilers through "Hunted".

John watches Dean as he packs his things into his bag. His elder son is sleeping, half-naked and twisted up in the thin motel blankets. Most people who meet Dean and see a picture of his mother think he's adopted, but John knows that if he opens the blinds just the right amount and the first light of dawn filters in at just the right angle, Dean will look exactly like Mary. It's a game he's played with himself for years, how to get the boys to look like their mother. Sam's much easier, of course, but he's gone, so John is stuck with Dean and that goddamn Winchester nose of his.

He goes into the bathroom, throws away his toothbrush and his razor, and stares at himself in the mirror. He hates the way he looks these days, but he can't care enough to do anything about it. He's got a good lead on where the fucker that killed his wife is, and he's going to find it and kill it, and that's all that matters. That and Dean, who is turning over in his sleep in the next room, who can't come with him. John scrubs his hand over his face.

Dean has always been a good soldier, a good son, but John's never known how to tell him. A pat on the back wasn't enough; an outright display of affection was too forward. So John would sit on Dean's bed when he was fast asleep, and rub the boy's arm and whisper to him: praise, fears, nonsense. Dean caught him once when he was a teenager, and he pretended he'd been sleepwalking and crept out, so as not to wake Sammy. He stopped after that, but he's started again recently, and this time, Dean hasn't seemed phased at all by his father touching his shoulder first thing in the morning. He's even asked _dad what's wrong_ a few times, but John just smiled and told him to get up.

He wants to stay with Dean: it's like there's a magnet in his stomach that makes him sick every time he tries to walk away, but he knows that if he finally finds something worth pursuing (he might get it this time, he's so goddamned close, he can practically taste it), he has to do it alone or they're both going to die. He knows that if Dean doesn't hear from him for a long enough time, he'll be worried, he'll go find Sammy, and they'll be brothers again. He knows that Sammy will need Dean--need his protection, need his strength, need his quiet mouth-breathing noises in the next bed--and that's how he always justifies sending Dean out on his own, how he's going to justify leaving now. He has plans for leaving messages and jobs for his boys--jobs he knows they can only do together. He leans on the sink and only looks up when he hears Dean call for him from the other room.

"Dad, you okay?" Dean says, walking towards him and putting on his t-shirt at the same time.

He turns around, half-sits on the sink, crosses his arms. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm okay, Dean."

Dean stops a few feet away, hesitates. "I--I've been worried about you."

"I know," he sighs. "But you don't have to, all right?"

"All right," Dean says, turning away.

"Dean," he says, turning off the light and following his son back into the main room, "I have a job for you." He picks up his journal and puts it in his bag, letting his fingers linger on the cover, as if he could absorb the information through osmosis, knowing he's going to have to part with it if he really picks up this trail.

Dean recovers his boots out from under his bed, sits down and puts them on. "Okay."

"I want you to go to Louisiana," he says over his shoulder. "There's some nasty hoodoo going on near New Orleans. I think you can handle it."

"Yes sir," Dean half-grunts as he ties his boots.

"And hey, Dean?" He glances over at his son. "This part is important."

"Yeah, I'm listening," Dean says as he stands up.

"I'm going to be on another job. Don't call me unless you absolutely have to." He reaches out for Dean and cups his jaw in his hand. And then he hugs his son.

At first Dean is tense, unaccustomed to the feeling of his father's body pressed against his, but then his arms slowly come up and wrap around John's waist, and John suddenly wishes Dean was twelve again, so he could do this more often. Dean has the same slightly-curved spine Mary had, and the same bony chin, which is digging into his shoulder at the moment. He memorizes the rising and falling of Dean's chest, and then lets go, backs up. Dean looks calm, but his eyes are sharp and terrified.

"You take care of yourself, okay?"

Dean exhales, swallows. "Yes, sir."

John smiles but doesn't say goodbye. He feels Dean's eyes follow him out the door. He lets his truck idle for a minute before pulling away, watching Dean packing his clothes and guns and everything else into a duffle bag. He catches a glance of his profile, and has to blink several times before the image of Mary goes away.


End file.
